


Touch'a, Touch'a, Touch Me

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: For this prompt:When Jaskier first met Geralt, the other reacted badly to touch, so Jaskier assumes that Geralt isn't comfortable with physical affection. This continues even up to the point where the two end up in bed together: encounters between them are often just sex, without much contact before or after.Of course, because this is a prompt, it's all a wild misunderstanding. Geralt just isn't used to dealing with closeness outside of the brief moments his coin would buy him for the night; Jaskier wishes he'd be allowed to touch and be touched by Geralt; Geralt wishes much the same. (Bonus points for Geralt with self-image issues doing his best not to wonder why the normally so touchy bard doesn't seem to want anything from Geralt outside of their tumbles.) So Jaskier's off Yearning, as he does, and Geralt's off quietly internalizing his issues and never talking about them, as he does.But eventually they reach blessed resolution with lots of care and tenderness.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 1175
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	Touch'a, Touch'a, Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Why does the Rocky Horror Picture Show provide the best fic titles?

Jaskier is almost embarrassed to admit that he’s been head over heels for the Witcher since their paths first crossed in Posada.

It had been difficult to recognize the feelings for what they were, at the time. It’s not surprising, considering that he’d been kidnapped, beaten, and threatened within an inch of his life within hours of meeting Geralt in that little backwater tavern. But once his injuries had healed, and he’d finished composing  _ Toss a Coin to Your Witcher _ , he realizes, with a start, that he’s in love. Which would be wonderful, really, except that he’s almost certain the only reason the Witcher keeps him ‘round is because he flat-out refuses to leave. 

...Not very romantic, is it? Traipsing around the continent, utterly besotted with an emotionally constipated Witcher who would not deign to even call him his  _ friend _ . He likes to think that Geralt refuses to call him ‘friend’ because he means so much more, but… all he has to base this assumption on is instinct, and the fact that Geralt seems reluctant to allow him to fall victim to the consequences of his own foolish decisions. He’s still alive, though by now, he should have died several times over, and he likes to think that that ought to count for something. Or, it just means that Geralt has a bleeding heart that aches at the suffering of innocents. Even  _ idiotic _ innocents.

Which really isn’t fair, considering that a sizeable portion of the trouble he lands himself in is Geralt’s fault in the first place. Was it really so difficult to compliment his singing, just once? He’s doing the Witcher a  _ service _ , singing his praises night after night… and what does he receive by way of thank you?  _ It’s like ordering a pie and finding it doesn’t have any filling _ . What does that even  _ mean _ ? Certainly nothing good. Jaskier finds himself bristling at the indignity of it all.

He thinks it would be easier to embrace  _ whatever _ it is that they share, if he had a clearer idea of exactly where he stands with Geralt. Jaskier is an incredibly tactile person. He expresses affection through hugs and kisses and tender touches… though he’d learned, early on, that the Witcher didn’t appreciate physical affection in the same way. Hells, he couldn’t even touch  _ Roach _ without incurring the Witcher’s ire! As the months stretched on, he was allowed minor concessions－such as rubbing chamomile lotion onto the Witcher’s lovely bottom after he’d suffered a particularly traumatic burn－but these were born out of necessity, not desire. 

Their relationship only became more complicated when it evolved from…  _ whatever _ it had been into something physical. The sex was bloody  _ fantastic, _ don’t get him wrong. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Jaskier  _ still _ didn’t know where they stand－and so he savored each of their encounters, ever-fearful that this would be the last. He did his best to refrain from  _ touching _ , to keep their encounters as clinical and detached as possible, for fear that one wrong step would be enough to send Geralt running for the hills. And Geralt never complained, not even when he’d slink out of his bedroll once they’d finished to hunker down in his own… And yeah, it hurts, but he’s not about to ask of Geralt more than he’s willing to give. If all he wants is an enthusiastic partner to warm his bed…

He wants Geralt, in any way that the Witcher will allow himself to be had. He’s wanted him ever since their paths first crossed in Posada, and he’s determined not to let something as pesky as  _ feelings _ interfere with…  _ whatever _ it is that they have (it’s so much easier to tell himself that it’s nothing, to let himself believe that he can have  _ this _ with no strings attached… because the moment he starts trying to assign value to what they share is the moment he acknowledges just how much all of  _ this _ hurts). He’s…  _ happy _ with what they have. To ask for more, to risk everything for the occasional cuddle, would be selfish. 

“Jaskier,” he cannot help the way his heart seizes when he hears the Witcher say his name. He turns to him, a brief flicker of hope burning bright in his chest… only to realize, belatedly, that he’d frozen halfway through his endeavor to leave the bed and the new position is causing the furs to bunch awkwardly around Geralt’s midsection. 

“Oh! S-Sorry, I－,” he scurries out of bed, wincing when the frigid air hits his bare thighs. He tucks Geralt’s hulking frame underneath the furs, utterly convinced that the bite of the frigid evening air was the cause of the tenseness in Geralt’s tone. 

Geralt frowns, working his jaw in a way which clearly demonstrated that he had something he wanted to say, but didn’t know how. Finally, he settles on, “It’s cold. Too cold to spend the night on the floor. You’ll catch a chill.” 

Jaskier blinks, “B-But you’re already settled in. And the bed’s not really big enough for the both of us without－,”

“I will sleep on the floor.” He decides, as if this solves everything. Jaskier stares at him, dumbfounded.

“I’m not trying to run you out of the bed, Geralt. It’s your turn to…” he trails off, finding himself at a spectacular loss for what to say. It  _ is _ Geralt’s night to take the bed, after all, and there’s surely no way that he is suggesting that they ought to share. The bed is scarcely wide enough for one man; in order to comfortably fit two they would have to－

Geralt huffs, tossing the mountain of furs at Jaskier as he moves to slide off of the side of the bed. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“W-Wait, what are you－,” by the time he frees himself from the miniature cocoon, Geralt has already sprawled himself out in front of the fire, dressed only in a pair of worn, black leggings, with the laces still undone. “Geralt, don’t be an arse. You’ll freeze!”

Though he knows he’s not asleep, the Witcher does not answer him, nor does he give any sort of indication that he heard Jaskier at all. It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to stop trying. He tries to ignore the way his chest  _ aches _ at the thought of what might have been, of snuggling up to his Witcher’s broad, powerful chest in the soft pink haze of post-orgasmic bliss. But if Geralt wants to freeze on the shoddy wooden floor… he supposes that that is his prerogative. With a soft sigh, he flops down against the feather-stuffed mattress, burying his face amongst a sea of pillows, inhaling the faint scent of Geralt’s musk that lingers on the fabric…

It does not surprise him that sleep does not come easily.

* * *

Geralt knows that he’s been in love with Jaskier for quite awhile, but the moment it finally  _ clicked _ was when he saw the bard sprawled out on Yennefer’s bed, finally,  _ finally _ able to breathe without his fragile, human lungs rattling with fluid on every inhale. 

He doesn’t like to think on it, how frightfully close he’d come to losing Jaskier to his own foolishness. But here, in the quiet, he finds that it is all that he can think about…

Jaskier won’t touch him. Although… to be fair, that’s not necessarily true. It would be more accurate to say that Jaskier only touches him as much as absolutely necessary… and recently, the bard has been jumping on every available opportunity to widen the gap between them. And Geralt doesn’t understand. While it’s true that he’s unused to someone being so eager and willing to offer him physical affection (outside of the pittance that a handful of coins can buy him for the night), he’s not  _ adverse _ to the idea of sharing more with the bard. In fact, the thought of basking in the warmth of the bard’s affections is rather soothing. It fills his chest with an unfamiliar warmth and a certain  _ tightness _ that he cannot describe. 

It’s hard to give voice to those things which you have never felt before. He’s worried that words will cheapen them, or that he won’t be able to convey them to Jaskier in a way that the bard will understand. Or, somehow worse yet, that the bard will not  _ want _ to understand because he doesn’t feel the same. That the bard has been withholding his affection because there is no affection to give. He realizes, distantly, that he’s scared. Scared of admitting how much Jaskier means to him… or, rather, that Jaskier has become  _ everything _ to him, only to find out that he means absolutely nothing to the bard. It would be oddly (painfully) poetic. After all, a monster such as himself did not deserve something so  _ pure _ and  _ wholesome _ and  _ good _ .

Geralt idly traces fingers over scars long since healed, and wonders if Jaskier’s hesitance is less due to a lack of feelings and more directly a result of disgust. He knows that Jaskier does not fear him, though it would be far wiser if he did… and his traitorous mind is all too willing to fill in the blank with the next most plausible worst case scenario. He knows that his scars aren’t  _ pretty _ . They come with the territory, just one more reminder of how human he isn’t. He supposes that he should count himself lucky that nothing has gotten his face… yet. It hurts, but… he can handle Jaskier not wanting to touch him. He  _ can _ . But he doesn’t think that he’s strong enough to handle it if Jaskier can’t even  _ look _ at him and－

The air is thick with the sour scent of distress, accentuated by the unmistakable sharpness of  _ salt _ . Someone is crying. He turns to the bed, only to find Jaskier sprawled out beneath the furs, unmoving. He’s uncertain as to whether he is actually asleep, or trying incredibly hard to appear as though he is… but either way, the scent is not coming from him. Which means… plump lips turn down into a warbling frown as he raises one sword-callloused hand to his cheek, jumping a bit when the pads of his fingers come across an unfamiliar wetness. When did he start－

_ “Fuck,” _ he hisses, scrubbing at his cheek with a bit too much force. His pale skin blooms a violent red, though whether it is from embarrassment, or skin irritation, it’s difficult to say. 

His damned heart pulls a full-stop when he hears the bed creak. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Jaskier is peering at him over the edge, a look of earnest curiosity and concern on his pretty face. The bard is  _ predictable.  _ Even if he never wants anything more from Geralt, even if he’s content to simply soldier on as they have for the last several months… despite Geralt’s numerous attempts to prove the contrary, Jaskier remains convinced that they are friends. And friends look out for one another, even when one stubbornly refuses to admit that they want－or need－help. 

A second later, he feels the soft caress of one of the many furs that lined the bed against his back. He turns, confused, only to realize, belatedly, that Jaskier must’ve figured that he’d caught a chill and… But of course. That makes  _ sense _ . Why would Jaskier think that he’s sitting there, crying, because for the first time in recent memory, he knows  _ exactly _ what he wants and who he wants it with? Hells, why would Jaskier think that he’s sitting there, crying, at all? He takes the blanket with trembling fingers and bundles it around his shoulders tight, in a pitiful attempt to mimic a hug. The blanket is blissfully warm, and it must’ve been the one closest to Jaskier’s body, because the scent of orange and spice lingers in the thick material…

It’s been so long since the Witcher has been well and truly drunk that he’s almost forgotten how it feels… but laying there, enveloped in Jaskier’s citrusy scent, he imagines that this is pretty damn close. 

“Geralt,” the Witcher’s name is heavy on Jaskier’s tongue, like lead. Geralt fixes his eyes on the fire and tries not to read too heavily in-between the lines. He feels fragile, not like the Witcher, hardened by years of death and violence, of anger and hatred, but… like that little boy who went to fetch water for his mother so many lifetimes ago.

Like if he allows himself to give voice to the maelstrom of emotions brewing inside of him, in the morning he’ll wake to find Jaskier gone… just like her. And so he holds his tongue, and waits. 

“Goodnight, Geralt.” The bard sounds hesitant to leave things as they are, but he chalks this up to wishful thinking and allows him to settle back down to sleep. It takes far longer than it ought, but Geralt can be patient… and as the long night stretches out before him, he has nothing but time. 

It does not surprise him that sleep does not come easily.

* * *

“Geralt…” Jaskier crosses into his field of vision some time later, his lithely muscled frame still swamped in the Witcher’s plain black shirt… He thinks that it looks nice on him, but based upon the sour expression marring his pretty face, it’s safe to assume that now is not the opportune time to bask in the bard’s ethereal beauty. “I think that we need to talk.”

Geralt frowns. Talking is… not ideal, especially considering he’d spent the bulk of the night staring blankly into the fire. He is exhausted and achey, his body loudly protesting his choice to spend the night on the bare wooden floor. “Hmm.”

Jaskier swallows hard, his cornflower blue eyes focused on the fraying hem of Geralt’s shirt. “Y-You… I couldn’t help but notice that you were crying last night. And I suppose it’s safe to assume that you don’t want to talk about it, b-but on the off chance that you  _ would _ … I wanted to say that I’m here. And I w-want to help, if you’ll let me.”

Geralt cocks his head to the side and furrows his thick, dark brows. “You’re scared.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the－,” he chuckles wryly, gesturing vaguely at his nose. “I’m not frightened of you, I assure you. Well, not you exactly. More so that you’ll… push me away.” He concludes, voice growing weaker. “A-And I don’t want to accidentally tread on some sort of line in the sand, because I know we’re not… we’re not f-friends.”

Geralt stares at him blankly for a few moments, unsure of what to say. He knows that it’s rather hypocritical for him to have such a visceral reaction to hearing Jaskier say that they’re not friends, considering that he’s told the bard that exact same thing every time the opportunity presented itself… but there’s something about the way that Jaskier says it, the way he sounds so heartbreakingly  _ resigned _ , that gives him pause. He’s not the best at understanding humans－especially Jaskier. But then, it’s been an incredibly long time since there’s been a human that’s meant as much to him as Jaskier… and so he tries. He sits there in silence for several moments, working out exactly what it is that he wants to say, before reaching out to curl his fingers underneath Jaskier’s chin to tilt his head back.

Jaskier inhales shakily, his cornflower blue eyes blowing wide as he makes eye contact with Geralt for the first time that morning. Geralt realizes, with a start, that they’re both crying now. But in Jaskier’s eyes… he can see many of the same emotions that are churning within him: a fear that makes him tremble, a sadness that threatens to break him, and an affection too deep for words. He reaches out to brush a sword-calloused thumb along the delicate arch of Jaskier’s cheek, sweeping away his tears with a touch so much gentler than he’d used with his own. Jaskier’s lips part with a soft  _ pop _ , a bright burst of color climbing the thick column of his neck to settle upon his cheeks…

“Stay,” he says, his voice scarcely above a whisper… and yet, it seems to echo in the tense quiet of their room. “Even if you don’t… Even if you  _ never _ … want me that way… I want to be selfish, just this once, and ask you to stay.”

Jaskier blinks, pursing his lips in confusion. Geralt begins to grow tense beside him, worried that he had said or done something wrong… when at long last, Jaskier asks, “Want you in  _ what _ way, Geralt?”

The Witcher swallows hard, the pained expression on his face making his discomfort clear. And yet he presses forward, “I… I know that you don’t like to touch me more than… more than necessary.” He whispers at last.

Jaskier’s eyes blow wide, “Y-You think that I don’t… Oh, sweetling,  _ no _ . No, that’s－please don’t ever－,” in his haste to assuage Geralt’s fears, he finds himself tripping over his words, desperate to convey his feelings for the other. “I simply thought that you didn’t like to be touched. You… had a less than pleasant reaction to it in Posada, and I－,”

Geralt’s eyes flicker to the fireplace, “I’m not… It’s not that I don’t like it.” He says, weakly. “It’s just… few would touch a Witcher so freely, that I’ll admit it was a bit… alarming, at first.” He turns back to Jaskier, his eyes misty. “But then you just  _ stopped _ and… Everyone has their limits. I simply figured that this was yours.”

Jaskier worries his plump bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes flickering over Geralt’s broad, trembling frame, before he asks, “Geralt… may I touch you?”

Immediately, the Witcher’s hackles are raised, “Jas, this wasn’t… I don’t want you to force yourself to do something that you－,”

“I  _ want _ to touch you.” He says, voice firm. “With your permission.”

A second passes in tense silence, before Geralt offers a hesitant little nod. Jaskier starts small, cognizant of the fact that Geralt will still need time to adjust… this is something new, something  _ precious _ , that the Witcher is trusting him with, and despite how Jaskier wishes to latch onto him tight and never let go… they have the rest of eternity for that. Right now, he needs to acclimate the Witcher to his touch, to prove to him that this is what he  _ wants _ , and that Geralt is not being selfish for wanting that affection in return. His heart swells as Geralt melts beneath his hands like butter, a tension that he hadn’t realized the larger man was carrying seeping from his body as he allows himself to bask in the warm glow of Jaskier’s affection.

Jaskier’s touch is not shy, but he is careful to observe the little signals Geralt’s body provides him, steering clear of those scars that make him flinch and shudder… pressing deeper when his touch is met with soft, heady little moans. It’s not long before they’re both sprawled out before the fire, Geralt lazily rousing the flames with the iron poker stored on a nearby hanger. Jaskier is stretched out overtop of his Witcher, curling thick tendrils of soft, silver-white hair around his finger. There’s a loud  _ clank _ as Geralt throws the tool aside, and suddenly, a large hand skirts beneath the hem of his shirt to cup his bottom, massaging the firm globes in slow, lazy circles.

It’s everything he’s wanted for so long… He’s not entirely convinced that he won’t wake up in a handful of hours to find that it was all some sort of fever dream. 

But then Geralt is pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head, whispering, “The room is paid through tomorrow. I suggest you get some sleep, little lark－,” he lands a sharp, open-handed swat on Jaskier’s ass that has the bard keening, and rutting weakly against Geralt’s thigh. “You’re going to need it. We have quite a bit of time to make up for.”

“We do.” Jaskier agrees with a small smile. And then, feeling brave, he adds, “And the next time you feel like this… Come to me? Please?” He sighs, “I… I love you, and I… I really hate to see you hurting. Whatever the cause.”

Geralt blinks, then nods, “Hmm.” 

And, bundled in front of the fireplace… the Witcher and his bard slept well into the evening. 


End file.
